Tag: Italy

Rome… Rain… Rest… and The Golden Girls

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Walking in Trastevere in the morning, 2.15.11

Up until this week Wednesday (the 16th), I have been taking long walks around the city of Rome.  When I say long, I mean like 4 hours long…  I am not quite sure how many miles I have been covering, but I do know I have been enjoying myself immensely!  There would be nothing very special about my walking for long periods of time (especially in my 3-inch heels!) except for one fact:  I have fibromyalgia (FM).

Although the fibromyalgia syndrome has become more well-known over the last few of years, it still remains somewhat of an enigma to the general population.  This is due to the many symptoms associated with the syndrome, the complexity of the diagnostic procedure, and also the continued controversy within the medical field over the validity of the diagnosis – Some doctors like to have a specific “cause” they can treat, rather than dealing with numerous “effects” and uncertainties.  Moreover, the nature of fibromyalgia is that it is chronic, even though many people can live for years in remission. 

Tender points used in diagnosing fibromyaglia (public domain image by NIH, from Wikipedia)

I won’t go into the details of the fibromyalgia diagnosis. I will, however, give you some highlights as to what the symptoms are, so that you have a fuller understanding as to why I am writing about this today.  The symptoms include, but are certainly not limited to:

Fatigue

Pain

Cognitive Dysfunction (problems concentrating, long/short-term memory impairment,  etc.)

Sleep disturbances

Migraines / Nausea

 

So, what does this have to do with my stay in Rome?  Well, everything.  You see, since Tuesday afternoon I have been spending most of my time… sleeping. 😉

I will tell you that the onset of my fatigue coincided with a drop in the temperature, followed by rainfall… and weather typically has a dramatic effect on many people with fibromyalgia.  Also, many people diagnosed with fibromyalgia may also have a comorbid diagnosis of seasonal affective disorder (S.A.D.), amongst a host of many other diagnoses… (see above links).

As a person living with fibromyalgia, especially as a therapist, it is important to incorporate self-care into my daily schedule.  Moreover, it is important for me to be mindful of how much energy I am expending, how much stress I am experiencing, and above all to keep my mood elevated.  🙂  So, what’s the point, D?

D in Boston (late autumn, 2010)

The point is that while I was in Boston, I could hardly walk down my street, or really do any physical activity without feeling extremely tired and being in pain.  I often woke up feeling tired, nauseous, in pain, and sad.  There were probably many factors that played a role in my experiences (like… well, Boston decided that a snow storm every week was really the way to go…).  Upon arriving in sunny Rome, I found that all of these symptoms seem to fade away.  I had boundless amounts of energy, was never nauseous, had no pain, and my mood was great!  Well… Until this week. 😉

D in Rome, 2.17.11

You see, the thing with fibromyalgia is this – You have these moments when you feel amazing as though everything is okay with you, that your brain and body are actually functioning in the way that they ought.  When you have these moments of remission, it can create within you a feeling of self-doubt.  Why?  Because you begin to doubt whether the pain, the nausea, the sadness, and the fatigue are real…  That is, whether or not you are truly experiencing these symptoms or if you are merely being psychosomatic, especially because, as I mentioned above, there is no known/verified cause of fibromyalgia.

When you experience a significant relapse (and the likelihood that you will may be pretty good depending on your lifestyle), it drags you back down to your reality, which is… that you are a chronically ill person.  Yes, it confirms that you are not crazy… that you are not making your symptoms up, and that they are real!  It, however, reminds you that you cannot live life as though you do not/may not experience these symptoms ever again. 

Thus, here I am… a bit tired, a bit in pain, a bit sad, a bit nauseous… Just a bit.  This week has been a reminder for me that I didn’t leave my fibromyaglia behind me once I stepped off the airplane upon my arrival in Rome.  This week is a reminder that I am still who I am in some ways…  I am still a person with fibromyaglia, who needs to take care of herself. 

And yes, Rome has been good to me and for me, and for that I am glad.  I need also to be good to me as well… And so, I am going back to bed. 😉

 

The Golden Girls

I love “The Golden Girls.”  This is not a result of the new Betty White craze.  From a very young age, I enjoyed watching the show because of the wonderful acting, brilliant writing, and important themes.  As an adult, I have continued to watch “The Golden Girls, ” and was presently surprised to come across a two-part episode titled, “Sick and Tired.”  The episode chronicles Dorothy’s experience of dealing with chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS), which is a similar diagnosis to fibromyalgia (FM) – Actually, many people with fibromyalgia are encouraged to receive a primary diagnosis of CFS in order to receive disability, because FM sufferers are often denied disability.  Back to “The Golden Girls.”

The first time I watched this episode, I was overwhelmed by emotions because of my own struggle with being diagnosed with FM.  I had been suffering for years with many symptoms, from migraines to immense fatigue.   I had been told by doctors that perhaps my problem was that I was “overweight,” or that I “didn’t drink enough water,” or that I “needed more exercise.”  No doctor, it seemed at that time, was willing to help me put the puzzle pieces together… And all the while, I became sicker and sicker, constantly getting colds, constantly feeling pain to the point that I could not walk, and being so tired that I could not get out of bed, even lifting my head felt like a chore.  It took the wisdom of my therapist and (randomly enough) my dermatologist to help me begin sorting through what was happening to me… To give me a name for what I was experiencing.  And more importantly, to validate me and my stated symptoms, and thus help me to validate myself.  So, if you have a chance, take a look at this episode.  I think you can see most of it on YouTube.  You may never know when you may meet someone like me… who may have a diagnosis that isn’t readily apparent, and not easily understood.

 

You can see part 2 on YouTube.

Just when I thought hell would have to freeze over… Demonstrations in the streets!!

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I will tell you, there is nothing quite like thousands of women and men shouting the English word “bullshit” all in unison!  No… really!  Especially, when this is done with strong Italian accents, it really makes you smile, and feel proud to be an English speaker! 🙂 

Women's Demonstration against Berlusconi & the Government (2.13.11)

Okay, there were many other reasons to feel quite proud today, and they had nothing to do with being an English speaker.  They, however, had everything to do with being a woman!  Yes, that’s right!  The women of Italy must have heard about me complaining in my blog, or somehow psychically felt my ever-growing disgruntled pms-ing energy pervading the universal ethers (because everything is really all about me – No, really, I know! 😉), and decided to show me that the women of Italy knew what was up!  And what was up was their dander!

"Al sesso, bello, sporca, tutto, un capo brutto" Women's Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

The very same thoughts that I have been sharing over the last few days about my observations on the behaviours of Italian men, or at least the structure of the Italian patriarchal society that so highly influences its men’s behaviours, was being reflected back to me by these angry and highly organized as well as mobilized women!  They shouted for respect and equality!  They asked not to be seen as just sexual objects to be used and abused by men such as Berlusconi, the current Italian president.  They asked for all Italian women to be united and to stand up for themselves, and to demand their place in society, rather than be treated as second-class citizens!

"If not now, when" Sign at Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

I was amazed, dumbfounded, and humbled.  I realized that I have had the misfortune of only having had the acquaintance of Italian males, and did not understand at all the experience of the average Italian female.  In my independent, liberal-minded, feminist, American arrogance (Yes, I said, “arrogance,” because it was true.), I had made the assumption that the Italian woman was okay living in this system, and had quietly acquiesced to her place of submission –  I was wrong, and am truly glad for this discovery.

Women at demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

What is equally amazing is that I would not have known anything about this demonstration had it not been for a man.  Enter Giuseppe: a politically-minded, middle-aged, professional.  He along with a number of many other Italian males were participating actively in the demonstration and screaming and shouting along with the women, and applauding the female presenters!  This was highly encouraging to see.  After all, up until this point, I had all but decided that Italian men were… well, let’s just say, not quite enlightened.

Men at Women's Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

The cynic in me, of course, is always able to point out the many people who are, what I call, “token” activists.  That is, they come to a demonstration here or there, but otherwise do nothing, or actually do everything to thwart whatever the movement is. 

These “token” activists are able to say, however, that they believe in the movement because they went to a demonstration.  It is like people who say they do not exhibit any racist behaviour because they have minority friends, yet still they may make stereotyped commentary about minorities (all under the guise of “It’s just a joke.”)

I suppose this is my fear –  That these men might just be “token” activists,

Berlusconi Flyer (Given out at the Demonstration), 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

and do not actually believe in the cause, or will not actually do anything to help the women further it.  That these men, in essence, are there just for lip service and to be a “token” display of gender alliance. Well…  I will choose for today to look at the glass as half-full however… and be happy for these women, and happy for myself too, to have been witness to this event. 

 

 

 

 

 

It is not lost on me that the women chose to hold this event on the day before Valentine’s Day… Especially as I have been told, Valentine’s Day is not much celebrated here.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 
 

"Indignant!" Banner at Women's Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

"Enough!" Banners at Women's Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)


















Thousands gathered, Women's Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

Reflecting on week one… and Pressing the “Play” button.

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It may be easy to forget, especially amidst my somewhat colourful observations, that when I first started to write about my experience of Rome, I compared Rome to myself.  Today I wanted, to reflect on this.   This is in order for you to understand a little more about why I chose to come to this place; where, for all intents and purposes, I am so utterly harassed and seemingly jarred by its culture. 

In my work as a therapist, I have chosen to focus on two modern approaches to understanding the human experience – I will, however, confess that I am also quite rooted in both humanistic psychology/existentialism and psychodynamics – These approaches are dialectical behavior therapy (DBT) and internal family systems model (IFS).  At this point, you might be wondering, “Okay, D, what exactly is the point?” 

Well, the point is that these two approaches have, in essence, saved my psychologically-saavy booty from disaster time and time again!  I suppose, I wish that I could apply these approaches to Rome… If only Rome were a person, with whom I could corner, speak and encourage (Apparently, I am quite good at all three of these actions, particularly the last.  My thanks to April, Doli & Isobel and others who have agreed.) to have a session either with me or someone else (Group therapy even!  I am sure there are some other cities, whole countries,…entire continents, who would want in!). 

Perceptual Organization (Two silhouette/Vase) - Image by Mila Zinkova, who neither endorses this blog or my use of this image.

You see, Rome reminds me of how I used to be, i.e. unable to show my true “Self,” only showing to people (and myself) various “parts” of myself, but never the whole.
   
I will spare you the lecture on IFS (today).  I will, however, try to explain what I mean by the above-statements.  It is like the image on the left – I think most of you know this famous illusion. What do you see?  The two faces? Or the vase?  Either way, your mind will force you to see either one, and then the other, but rarely simultaneously.  In essence, we are seeing only one “part” of the image, and then the other “part” reveals itself to us eventually. 

People are like this too.  We sometimes compartmentalize ourselves, and show only parts of ourselves to the world around us.  At any given moment, ask yourself, “What part of myself am I showing right now?” or “From which part of myself am I operating?”  It is when you begin to realize that you are not whole, not completely synthesized as a human being, that I believe you can begin to make effective change.  Because at that moment, you can begin to become more aware of who you are, the many parts that make up you and why they are.  Now back to Rome.

A restaurant in the Campo dei Fiori neighbourhood.

 
So far, I have been only able to see Rome dichotomously.  I am presenting this picture on the right as an example of the dichotomy of which I have been experiencing.  When I first looked at this area, all I saw was a restaurant.  My eyes, however, were then drawn to the image at the top of the building directly ahead.  Do you see it?  If not, then I will give you a closer look below. 

Religious image on building in the Campo dei Fiori neighbourhood.

Pleasure and religion –  These are the two sides that I have been able to see of Rome thus far.  For me, the merger of pleasure and religion has quite a jarring effect, and has created within me this feeling of Rome as a place of inauthenticity and superficiality.  There are usually and thankfully, however, more than two sides to every story – My own self-development is a testimony to this.  Thus, I am inclined to give Rome a chance to tell her story in a new way, and to keep my ears and heart open to experiencing her differently.  After all, this is what I have done for myself, and as a result I am the most content I have ever been in my life with who and how I am as a person in this world. 

Pressing “Play”

Last night for the first time in a long time, I truly cried.  I cried not because I was angry, or something bad had happened.  I cried because I could actually allow myself to feel a moment of fear, and to let it manifest in tears for myself and my unknown future.   Crying is a healthy action, and I have encouraged it for years in my clients.  It is, however, something I have despised doing for a multitude of reasons.  Allowing myself to cry last night meant something very important to me.  It meant that I was continuing to grow, and to become more emotionally healthy as a human being – And there is nothing wrong in that. 😉

In DBT you learn that our actions/reactions are often triggered by our emotions, and our emotions are triggered by our thoughts, i.e. how we perceive the circumstances that are occurring in our lives.  The point is, if you are able to become aware of your thoughts and to change them, you are more capable of effectively managing your emotions, and thus able to manage your actions.  Why am I harping on about this?  Well, I am going back to my crying last night.

Crying is a reaction to an emotion I felt, which was fear.  Emotions are wonderful and powerful, and a driving force for creativity.  How we choose to manifest our emotional states is important to consider.  Crying is healthy.  Throwing a chair out of a window is not (and no, I have not done this, but I have seen it done). 

As I said our emotions are caused by our thoughts.  So, what was it that I was thinking that caused me to feel fearful late on a Saturday night while alone in Rome?  What caused me to feel fear was that I did not know,… that my life is in an uncertain place – And in that moment, I doubted my own self-efficacy.  Doubting one’s self can be a difficult and life-stopping experience.  It can ruin careers, relationships, and even actual lives.  When we begin to doubt, we are in essence putting ourselves on a type “pause.”  We are holding ourselves in abeyance until we have some evidence of a direction in which to go that helps us to feel more secure or self-assured.  Being in abeyance can feel safe for a long time, but you are not living if this is where you are.  You have hit the “pause” button on your life, and hoping that “something,” or sometimes “someone” will come to propel you into the play of life once more.

However, the reality is this: you pressed the “pause” button.  Thus, it is up to you to press “play.”  No one can do this for you.  You can get help, and there are always people to help, if you are willing to be helped.  The job, however, is yours…

So, I am taking my own advice… I am pressing “play.”  There is a time for fear, and I have felt it.  My life is uncertain, yes.  What isn’t?  (Oh yeah, death and taxes… I know!)  This uncertainty, however, can also be looked at as a chance for a grand adventure and new opportunities.  So, world (and presently, Rome),  I am opening myself to you and accepting all the life-benefitting, wonderful and rewarding gifts you have to offer!

Watch your thoughts, they become words.
Watch your words, they become actions.
Watch your actions, they become habits.
Watch your habits, they become your character.
Watch your character, it becomes your destiny.
-Anonymous

Rome is in-love… with Viagra. Plus, who knew? Io so come parlare nell’italiano.

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Ah…. Love.  It gives you that warm and queasy fuzzy feeling in the pit of your stomach… kind of like menstrual cramps (For the men out there, think of a bad bout of the stomach flu – It’s basically the same thing.)  By the way, just for the record, my sister, Michelle, told me this morning I was a bit of a cynic.  Though for the life of me, I cannot fathom why!  Now on to more truthful statements. 😉

Yesterday I thought I was emitting pheromones.  It turns out that I wasn’t far off, because today I discovered the source of the pheromone-emission: Piazza Navona.  That’s right!  With its centrally located and overbearingly phallic Bernini fountain shooting sprays of water for all passersby to enjoy and be potentially sprinkled by, Piazza Navona acts as some type of Roman pheromone repository to be accessed just in case the sexual tension eases even ever so slightly in the Eternal City.  And apparently with my arrival, the heaping amounts of asexuality that I normally drag around with me like an untamed and hungry elephant (I had to trade the lioness in – She really didn’t take up quite the right amount of space and didn’t cause nearly enough damage.) was just enough to set off the alarm bells from Campo dei Fiori to the Piazza di Spagna.   

Thus, upon my first visit, my asexual powers were neutralized as I stood (like any good tourist would) close to Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers aka Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi (that’s right… four) to take a picture! 

Close-up of Bernini's Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi (Piazza Navona)

My subsequent visits only resulted in a type of dousing that has left me… Well, you know already… (And if you don’t, then read the last post and catch up!)  By the way, there are three fountains in Piazza Navona: one on either entrance (Fontana del Moro, located at the south entrance & Fontana del Nettuno, located at the north entrance; both by Giacomo della Porta) and then the above-mentioned granddaddy of them all.  So, truly, there is no getting around the pheromone emissions, ladies… So, deal with it and carry a fly swatter, or a baseball bat, or a can of mace – Whatever your fancy… Unless you like the attention.  If you do, then have at, because the men surely will!

Welcome to Piazza Navona... and it's fountains. (South entrance)

 

Fontana del Nettuno, "Fountain of Neptune." Honestly, I wouldn't mess with him... Just spray me with pheromones already! Especially, if you're going to be all weapon-wielding and testosterone driven. Sheesh! (Piazza Navona)

Fontana del Moro, "Fountain of the Moor." So, I am less intimidated... but still, every orifice something pouring from it... (Piazza Navona)

 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 
 
 

 

 

 
 
 

     

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, "Fountain of the Four Rivers" Um... Yeah. I think that says enough. (Piazza Navona)

  

Ahem, but actually, this section was about love… That’s right! The warm, fuzzy, yada-yada…(and I never watched an episode of Seinfeld in my life)… Couples, couples everywhere and evidence of breeding to spare!… This was the situation in Piazza Navona (and I have the pictures to prove it)… On the one hand, in the overcast gloominess of the morning, it was sort of sweet (in a cloying way) to see these happy young and old couples walking hand-in-hand, pregnant women, and children playing… After about 30 minutes though, I was quite sick of the public displays of affection (PDA).

Love is in the air... (Piazza Navona)

Love, all grown up!

Sweet... Isn't it? (Pizza Navona)

And then, of course... (Piazza Navona)

Not even the next generation is spared... (Piazza Navona)

 

I know… You might wonder, “D, why can’t you just appreciate and enjoy the wonder of love?”  Well, I guess, as I said above, I did… for a brief moment.  It is, however, things like the following situation that just kind of… well… kill it for me.

 
So, I mentioned yesterday that I had been accosted by no less than 4 middle-aged Italian men.  Of the four, I found that one seemed relatively harmless, and didn’t speak a word of English – Ciao, Vincenzo!  Thus, I thought, “Aha!  Here is an opportunity to practice my non-existent Italian… And if I need to (in case he turns out to be more on the strange side of things), I can always simply just start speaking in English while slowly backing away.” 
  
I met Vincenzo at the Piazza Navona in the latter part of the morning to take a walk around Rome and to see the sites (Vincenzo is visiting from another part of Italy).  When we reached the northern entrance of the Piazza, Vincenzo suggested that get a cup of coffee at one of the many gelatarias/coffee shops to be found in the area.  This one happened to be right at the north entrance – I tell you this, so that you can go there one day.  Upon entering, I was instantly attracted by the colourful display of gelato (What?  I am not stupid!  This is gelato we’re talking about!)… Now, when I say that after this experience, there is nothing else in Rome that can surprise me, I really mean it.  I mean…  If this does not tell you about the state of the patriarchal structure here in Rome, then I don’t know what will:

Try some gelato... Viagra flavour! (Cafe, northern entrance of Piazza Navona)

 

I made this picture quite large because I know the quality isn’t the best.  Um, but I think you can make out the word.  Now, I have never seen Viagra pills in my life, but apparently they are blue – Isobel informed me of this later on the day.  So, here it is… A blue gelato called “Viagra.”
 
 
 
I know how to speak in Italian. (Io so come parlare nell’italiano.)

It wasn’t enough for me to simply see this gelato and leave well enough alone.  No, I had to talk to the shop manager, who was quite a lovely lady and who also did not speak a lick of English.  Well, I am not sure how I managed to find my dictionary so quickly, however…  With the aid of my handy-dandy Berlitz Italian-English Dictionary, I was able to have a conversation with the manager about this Viagra gelato. 
 
The conversation went something like this:
Me: “Um… This is Viagra gelato?”
Manager: “Yes.”
Me: “Why?”
Manager: “I don’t understand what you mean.”
Me: “What is the meaning of this ‘Viagra’ gelato?”
Manager: (laughing, turns to male customers) “She wants to know the meaning of “Viagra!”
(A great deal of Italian chatter and laughter then ensues amongst the men.)
Me: “Yes, why do you have a Viagra-flavoured gelato?”
Manager: (Still laughing) “For the men, of course!  They need to have Viagra gelato!  It is good for them”
Me: “Um… I will have to let the ice-cream shops in the U.S. know about this then. Thanks!”
Manager: (Smiling) “You’re welcome!”
  
And so now I believe… sometimes… just sometimes, it’s better to not know… and I will remind myself, every now and then, to simply to leave well enough alone! 😉

 

I am emitting pheromones… and a night of Italian punk

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There are certain things I have come to realize about myself during my brief stay in Rome: 1) I more of myself than I ever was, and 2) who I was is now gone, and I am not quite sure if I existed.  With that said, let’s talk about today (Just so you are with me, it’s actually Thursday, February 10… Nevermind the posting date if it’s different.) 

Middle-aged Italian men have “ginormous balls.” What I mean by this is they have the amazing ability to dismiss whatever non-verbal social cues, such as the ABW scowl or head-turn (you know, you know what I’m talking about!), one might be displaying, which might mean something along the lines of “Now, really?  Do I look like I want to talk to you?”  Apparently, the sarcasm is completely lost them, or they choose to ignore it, because they always answer what is a truly rhetorical question with “Why, yes, D! You do want to talk to me.”  (Read/go watch and learn, young Italian men! Cat-calling is not the only way: Sheer and dogged questioning, regardless of language barriers – This is how you do it!) 

So, it was that I encountered no less than 4 of the above-mentioned men in a span of what amounted to less than 2 hours…  And what was I doing?  Was I sitting still?  Standing stationary somewhere, looking desperately in need of company?  Nope!  Actually, if you talk to anyone who knows me, I keep a military pace when walking.  It’s double-time, baby, when you’re with me!  Hop to it!  So, I ask you… How, in all that is beloved, did they manage to catch up to me?  (I have a sneaking suspicion it has to do with those 3-inch heels I have been marching around in! Thank you, Mudd shoes!)

Now, you might say, “D, why didn’t you just ignore them?”  Well, first, I hate being rude.  Second, the image of myself, a semi-tall Black woman, being chased by a rather short Italian man was too comical for even me, and so I thought it better to spare everyone the scene – Please, don’t get the wrong impression here.  I am far from egotistical.  Actually, I think I am quite ordinary/plain-looking.  So, I have actually chalked this whole Italian-men-chasing-me-thing up to pheromones, exoticism, and a serious need for a more cosmopolitan society.   In the interim, however, does anyone know if there is any kind of “Pheromone-off” spray I can use?  Please, send to Via dei… Oh, forget it!  Do you know about the Italian postal service? (Let me put it this way: It will probably reach here after I am back in the States.)

The Art of Punk

Let’s just continue with sex… I mean, The Sex Pistols, and the rest of Punk movement, which lasted how long?  Um… Is it actually over?  Someone really needs to tell some of the people I know back home… And apparently, some of the people here in Rome too, like the ones at tonight’s exhibition on Punk art (to be followed by an 80s dance party with intermittent moments of punk, doo-woop, and surf music – That’s right…“Surfing U.S.A.”).

My courageous companion, Isobel, to whom I offer many thanks for the invitation to this very entertaining event, looked shell-shocked as we watched the parade of young and old “punk” Italians break out their best dance moves to the Bet-you-can’t-guess-what-beat’s-coming-next music offered up by the brilliant and talented DJ (who I know, for a fact, possesses mad skills, because he exhibited these prior to people actually coming on to the dance floor).  I suppose, however, that I should stick to mentioning the art exhibition.

Well… Hmm…. I am not really sure what I can or should say about the exhibition,… and that about sums it up.  It’s best to leave well enough alone.  No, really – It was less of an exhibition and more of a reason to get together, drink, dance, show yourself, and be a part of the in-scene.  Perhaps that’s the exhibition I should actually talk about. 😉 So, let’s!

There will be a day (perhaps tomorrow) when I will actually devote some time to describing what I call the “peacock” trend of the Italian male.  Italian men are not merely metrosexual… They are something beyond this (I just can’t think of a word.)  I mean it is like taking every single gay male stereotype regarding grooming and tossing in healthy dose of another stereotype, i.e. the high-maintenance, gold-digging ex-girlfriend/boyfriend in the mix (It’s simply not enough to be high maintenance, in my humble opinion, gold-digging is a must!) You know?  Well, we’ll get into that another time.  For now let’s talk about the attendees of tonight’s exhibition.

I love the word “fop” and am quite dismayed that we do not use it more often in the English language to describe men and have now resorted to “metrosexual” (Wait just one minute!….  This is the word I was missing earlier! Aha… “Welcome, to Era of the Italian Fop!”)  Well, my version of the Italian fop was nowhere present at this event.  Isobel, however, made the comment that these men, more than likely, “spent more time in front of the mirror before coming [to the exhibition] than she did” (and the beautiful Isobel is no slouch in putting forth her best self ).

It was hard for me to understand what she meant, however, because all I could see was some sort of cross between a sort of “roll-out-of-the-bed-welcome-back-to-the-90s-grunge-look” meets the still (apparently) popular “emo” look, which was born out of punk but isn’t true punk.  Then again… I am no fashion expert.  

My lack of knowledge, however, was quite okay.  Isobel let me know that I was graced to be in the company of Rome’s trendiest of scenes – I was actually attending a gathering of some of the ‘It’ people of Rome, who the rest of Rome actually looked to, in order to understand the latest trends in fashion.  Ah hah!…  I wondered why their grungified and emo’ed clothing was so highly fragranced in Eau d’Euro…  It was all coming together for me.  Did I mention that this event took place not a stone’s throw away from Via dei Condotti, a rather famously fashionable, always busy, and disgustingly expensive shopping street?  Actually, I make it a point to walk down it whenever I go to the Spanish Steps… just so my two favourite stores, Goodwill and Buffalo Exchange, have some free international advertising. 😉

Speaking of advertising, why is there a free drink stand for Absolut Vodka at, what seems like, every social event (usually they are  lgbqt ) to which I have been over the last few years?  Is it not enough that Italians have to deal with wine?  Must we now add vodka to the mix?  Furthermore, and not saying that this event involved lgbqt people whatsoever (besides myself), but the prevalence of alcoholism in the lgbqt community is an enormous problem, and having free drink stands at any such event only serves to increase it.

Side note: Oh, by the way, my gaydar says “I see gay people…” Now, if I could only find the cats…

An old gypsy woman, Italian men… and renewing my “Bitch” card.

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An old gypsy woman at the Spanish Steps, Feb. 9, 2011

I realized today (…Am I caught up yet?) that unbeknownst to some men (and I am sure some women too), third-wave feminism did not die out in the 90s when it began, but is actually still alive and kicking its very high and pointy stiletto-ed heels as well as steel-toed combat boots (both of which I happen to own, even if I am more partial to the pointy variety at the moment)!  By the way, I am generally inclined towards ignoring the outline of my headlines and just plunging into whatever topic most interests me first.

Italian men

What a way to start?  The topic that most interests me first is Italian men… Right!  Well, it’s perhaps not in the way that you might think.  No… This is not the “Eat. Pray. Love.” – version (Yes, there may be many more references to come… Deal with it) of some handsome, young, Italian man with an unpronounceable (at least, for me) name such as “Massimiliano” sweeping me off my very queer-loving feet into some fairytale love-land or even love-fest.  Actually, this is a two-part observation: one of two men I know personally, and the other of the Roman men I have observed so far… or should I say, who have observed me?

Part 1. I have two friends here.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, they both happen to be male and Roman.  One, I believe, is more accepting of his Roman-ness and wears it as a badge of honour (Friend A).  The other, well… We’ll just say that he thinks of himself as a sensitive type of man (Friend B), which I am not quite certain fits in with my perception of the Roman male… Then again, what do I know?  I have only been here a couple of times in my life, and only know these two guys.  So, what the heck.

Without going into very long and rather tedious stories, I will simply state that both Friend A & B demonstrate a similar behavioural pattern, i.e. the when all else fails, “women-are-at-fault-all-times-no-matter-what.”  Curiously enough, this behavioural pattern has manifested only when I was engaging in an assertive act, such as expressing my own position on a topic, or my own right to act independently, or my own right to be heard and not be demeaned.   Immediately from both of these men, I was told that I was somehow injuring them by being assertive.  That by actually standing up for myself, I was actually being “rude” and “aggressive!” (Insert “Angry Black Woman Syndrome” because that is what it surely sounded like they were suggesting to me.)  I am in therapy.  I know for a fact that I am certainly not a sufferer of ABWS. (Now,where is that certificate of proof?)

Part 2. Beyond my two friends, I have been subject to the scrutiny of the general Roman male population, whose members, I can tell you, are not shy about making their assessment of your sexual appeal known.  Between the catcalls (“Bella!”), the stares (up and down, and up and down, and up and down, and call the friends over to stare up and down again and up… you know), the polite hellos (“Buonasera“), the direct one-on-one pretend conversations (“Hi, are you American?”or “Where are you from?”), and the pull-the-car-over-to-the-side-of-the-road-to-stare-and-try-to-engage-in-conversation (yes, this actually happened on Sunday); life here in Rome has been quite simple as a woman to enjoy. 

I don’t at all feel like a walking vagina on a daily basis whatsoever.  Nope.  Not at all!  I don’t at all feel like I should try to scrub away the filthy, grimy looks I received all day long as soon as I get home – Mind you, one never knows if the looks are due to lewd thoughts, or racist thoughts, or some whacked combination. Either way, it does make leaving my little studio each day quite an adventure!  It could be enough for a more reserved woman might want to resort to wearing a burka, were she permitted to do so.

Back in October as well as now, I wondered how Roman women have been able to deal with this kind of crap (what I deemed Roman male chauvinistic attitude towards women’s equality and sexuality) for generations.  Then, I thought about the rapidity of the language of Italian… and how for the most part, it was pretty hard for anyone to get a word in edgewise… and I had the answer!  The women didn’t listen to these whining,complaining, and seemingly sex-starved men -The women just talked over the men! (Okay, maybe I am being a bit simplistic, but…) 

I suppose the therapist in me had prompted me to have the patience to listen to them, or even to pay mind to them.  In the case of my friends, the reality was that they just did not like having a woman stand up to them… once again.  In a patriarchal society, what’s new in that?  And in the case of the general Roman male population… Well, men always desire what they esteem highly, but can never have.

Renewing the “Bitch” card

So, I renewed my “bitch” card, put on my name tag “Bitch Numero Uno” and wore it proudly today as I walked out of a bookstore, leaving Friend B behind, who thought that I should spend my time chasing after him (after he walked off and left me without letting me know where he would be going… I imagine he did this because of the small lecture I gave him on feminism… Oh well!).  Side note:  I am beginning to think I need to pick better Roman male friends.

Being a “bitch” is a necessary mode that all Black women must be able to access in my humble opinion.  When I say “bitch,” I mean that you are quite capable of showing even deeper levels of your personality, that you too are  a “beautiful, intelligent, talented, courageous hellion,”  and will serve all of that up with a smile. 😉   All you need is a reason.  Right? 

Black women have for too long been subject to the bottom of the totem pole.  It is in our best interest, therefore, to thwart anyone who tries to get in our way from upward movement… At least, these are my beliefs.  I could also apply the same thoughts to a whole slew of minority groups to which I also belong (general women-folk, foreign-folk,  gay-folk, chronically-ill-folk…you get the picture).  In essence, down with the man!… Did I just write that?  Well, what I mean is… Power to the people!  And the people, in this moment, happen to be me.  And I happen to be a Black woman living in Rome, albeit for a short time, where minorities are not well-liked or respected (no matter how nicely it’s put – Thanks, Francesco and Catherine)… and I am not sure exactly what the position women exactly hold… and if it is actually seen as vertical (of course, I am quite new to Rome, so don’t hold this against me… My opinion might change).

Old gypsy woman

There are many beggars here in Rome like many cities around the world – This is nothing new.  Guidebooks, natives, embassies, your friends and even parents warn you against them.   Don’t give them your money.  While one distracts you, others will come to rob you.  Darn right!  It’s true…  It is equally true, and not surprising for me, that a majority of the beggars that I have seen in Rome have been women…  And of course, minority women.  From what little I can tell, my assumption is that they are gypsies, who have been notoriously stereotyped as thieves and who live in fear in Italy due to their minority status, especially as the level of intolerance for cultural and ethnic diversity increases throughout the Italy’s major cities. Sadly, it seems to me there is a lot to be feared by the Italian male, if you happen to be female and a slight shade darker than White… At least, this is my opinion for the moment.  Who knows what experiences and new insights 17 more days will bring.

For the most part, I like beggars.  I always have.  I should actually rephrase that.  I like to help the homeless.  I was brought up that way.  It is not in my nature to look askance at someone, or to turn my nose up, or to shift my eyes away from that which makes me uncomfortable.  I learnt this from my mother, who I watched when I was a child give to many strangers bags of food when we, ourselves, were quite poor.

Distinctly, I have a memory of an old man who came to our home in Jamaica asking for food in exchange for work.  My mother would have been happy to have given him the food without having him work, but he insisted to cut the grass in the back of our house.  I watched him all day cut away at the tall grass with nothing but his frail body wielding, what seemed to me then, a giant cutlass.  This image has never left me. 

So it was that I found myself today standing atop the Scalinata della Trinita dei Monti (“Spanish Steps”), located in the Piazza di Spagna, looking  down at an old gypsy woman holding her hands clasp together as though praying.  She called to each passerby and to those who stood above her, “Ho fame.” (“I am hungry.”)  I stared at her for a long time.  I did not think much about whether or not she were telling the truth.  I only thought that I liked the look of her face.  Her face told many stories as she had seen many things – Stories I would never know. So I took pictures of her – Several.  And for that, I placed a euro in her jar.  Still afterwards she called to me, “Bella, ho fame.”

I smiled at her, and thought, “So am I.”

Playing catch-up… I can be such a hypocrite.

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Cold pizza tastes good,
warm.  Rome is in its winter –
No frost on windows.

I am sick of pizza.  Perhaps it is a blasphemy to say this in Rome… or anywhere in Italy.  It is, however, true.  As a vegetarian, Rome leaves much to be desired.  And as a vegetarian with penchant for Thai food… I am sooo in the wrong place.  Perhaps this will become some sort of abbreviated ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ – type thing.  After all, I am a young woman searching for herself, or something… No, I don’t think so.   Now, back to pizza.

I have a favourite restaurant now in my little neighbourhood, which is effectively Campo dei Fiori, and a grocery store that is two doors down from my apartment building.  There is even a yarn store (yes, I am a yarn addict – find me on ravelry.com).   What I don’t understand is this: why, my goodness, must there be a million and one pizza restaurants in what amounts to less than one square mile?  Okay, so I am exaggerating… just slightly.  But seriously!  Why not throw in a Thai or Indian or Chinese or Japanese or Caribbean or Ethiopian or some other country restaurant in the mix?  I understand that foreigners are not exactly welcomed… but truly, it would break up the monotony, people!  Is it just me?

Sunday, Feb. 6. Everyday I take a walk across the Ponte Sisto bridge over to Trastevere, which apparently is a favourite night spot for the young people (apparently, I am no longer young as I have no interest in being there at night).  This day found me strolling through what are becoming familiar streets and also quite unfamiliar streets.  And just to go along with my above rant, I thought I would mention the other thing that I found quite incredible in Rome as well: a tendency towards duplicity, hypocrisy, if you will.  A restaurant, Aristocampo, had posted on the front of their building, “We are against war and tourist menu.”  This is all fine and dandy…  Now, one of the things that Trastevere is renown is its wonderfully inexpensive prices for food.  So, it was quite to my surprise when I noted just how “expensively” “touristy” Aristocampo’s prices are.  I suppose they are quite fine to take as much tourist dollars as they can, but not so fine to cater to tourists otherwise. 

Rome cannot hide its duplicitous/hypocritical nature behind the fading “romantic” facades of its ancient buildings.  At least, not from me… as we are quite the same, Rome and I: grasping to become better versions of ourselves while attempting to assuage the years of damage done to us by ourselves and others.

Rome, che cosa vuoi?

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Statue of Giordano Bruno

Rome is a hard place and I am a hard person.  What I mean by hard is simply that Rome is all stone and little nature.  It is all grit and grime and movement.  I often feel now that I find myself to be same…  That there is no softness, purity, and no patience…  I am eager to build upon the last event and move on from the present one.   I feel as though my life has shown me too much in too short a period of time, and has made me too wise… but not wise enough to avoid this place where I have now found myself.

If you asked me what I want most right now, I would say to be free of all worry… then I would say to remember… then I would say to forget… then I would say nothing… for why should I want?

I despise Rome because it is so much like me – It reflects back to me so much of myself… or at least, who I have been in my many forms.   And it seems that now I am finding myself to be no different from many of my clients, whom I have seen over the years, i.e. wanting the past to go away… wanting to be far away from myself, but finding myself nowhere else but here with me.  I suppose I am human after all.  And so I have placed myself here in Rome, a physical manifestation of all of the parts of me I had come so to resent, but perhaps no so much anymore.  Now, Rome, what do you want?

Nessun Dorma

“Nessun Dorma” (“None shall sleep,” an aria from Puccini’s opera “Turandot.”)

Haiku, airports, and a missing cellphone.

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This is not about today, nor yesterday.  I am backtracking.  Well, as you saw, if you read the first post, I am quite late in starting this… and most things – Um…I am working on it.

When I look at my planner (yes, I actually keep one), it says “Wednesday, February 2, 2011, ‘Begin documenting more detailed.'”  No, this is not some secret code, nor was I stalking anyone and logging his/her every movement.  This was simply an instruction to myself to begin writing more about my thoughts about who I thought I was becoming… If only I had actually started… It might have helped.  Well, I won’t take the full blame for my late start on this one.

In the interim of not writing about the wonders of me, I was trying to plan for this trip.  Meanwhile, Boston (where I actually live) was going through some kind of war with the snow gods and was losing the battle fast!  Snow storm after ice storm after snow storm found me and everyone else desperate for something less interesting to happen – For  me, things only manage to get worse… um, I meant more interesting.

Being that I am chronically late for everything (I should ask my mother if I actually showed up on time for my birth), I decided quite late (on Monday) to rent an international cellphone for my trip (on Thursday).  Of course I requested for this phone to be shipped overnight to me via FedEx (arrival for Tuesday)… and of course, the snow gods landed, not just Boston, but the whole northeast and midwest of the U.S. a massive snow/ice storm on… Tuesday.  That’s right!   So, my phone sat in Indianapolis (frozen, I am sure) for two days, while I begged, beseeched, prayed, cried, and downright politely bullied my way through the ranks of FedEx… all the way through to Thursday morning – I am not sure I actually slept.

Airports

Logan airport is not a nightmare… Driving there, however, well, that’s another story.  Add random snowfall… Well, you get the picture.  I still didn’t have my phone. 

Sitting at the gate about 60 minutes before boarding, I get the miraculous phone call from FedEx stating, “Your package is ready for pick-up in Needham.”  Really?  Can you be serious?  I mean, I am only in the airport, pass security check, about an hour in the wrong direction from you… These are just small points, mind you – After gently suggesting to the FedEx employee that perhaps FedEx might want to bring the package to me given the circumstances, I discovered that I was not goddess-like after all, and could not actually move mountains, nor persuade the powers-that-be at FedEx to agree with me.

So, no-international-cellphone-me travelled from Boston to New York’s LaGuardia.   By the way, I make it a rule to send messages to my loved ones (family, friends, bill collectors) to let them know that I will miss them and that I am leaving.  It just so happens that one of my beloved friends, who happens to  live next door to me and is quite aware of a not-so-recent shift in my relationship status, thought that when I said I was “leaving, ” I meant that I was leaving forever and never ever coming back.  Thus, there I stood in the middle of LaGuardia (I can’t text and walk at the same time), trying to explain to him that the world hadn’t ended and that I would still be his neighbour, and that I wasn’t moving to Rome, but just taking a small vacation… I still am not sure whether or not he believes me. Oh well!

From LaGuardia I went on to Philadelphia (never do this to yourself) to take my international flight to Rome’s Fuminico airport.  Besides having to take the smallest airplane I had ever seen in my life to Philadelphia, the outdoor shuttle commute from one terminal to another was a health nightmare as you went from the blast of heat from the inside to the blast of cold from the outside – I am almost certain this is one of the reasons why I have the cold I have right now! (I should call someone and complain.)

Haiku

The flight to Rome was not without event.  For the most part, it was quite a nice and gently ride – I ate nothing.  You might ask, “D., why would you do such a thing?”  Well, I will tell you why.  As I said, the flight was “not without event.”  I am not sure what was going on with the passengers on that flight.  Consistently throughout the flight, however, it seemed a majority of the passengers were either hacking up one or the other of their lungs, or sneezing the remains of their last meals into the air.  (The other reason I am sure for my present cold!) I spent the majority of time with my scarf wrapped around my nose while dousing myself in Purell!  The woman in the row behind me actually tapped me on the shoulder and applauded my efforts as she too had been doing the very same thing as I! 

To pass the time and keep sane (I hate flying even though I have been doing this since childhood), I practiced writing haiku.  Yes, haiku.  Why?  Well, I am actually a part of a haiku & haiku art course, and will have to present work when I return.  So, I figured I better get my understanding of haiku together… Or if nothing else, get the form down.

I wrote many.  I won’t share them all here, because (as my teacher Pamela let me know in no uncertain terms) they were not very haiku.  I will, however, share two that she liked and commended: one, I wrote before my journey; and the other, I wrote during the flight to Rome.

Leaves must turn towards

the colour of rust- Find joy

Beginning the end.

 

Have you yet counted

the raindrops, numerous, wild

pushing forth new life?

 

I am soooo very late… but what’s new.

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Truth be told, I should have started this blog on the 6th; or perhaps, if I were over-achieving enough on the 4th; when I first arrived in Rome.   The fact is that the idea never came to me, and probably never would have, especially given the fact that I shy away from anything that exposes my private life to any type of scrutiny whatsoever.  Why?  Well, I am a therapist, and privacy (as well as secrecy) is a way of life. 

I could bore you to death discussing the argument about whether or not a therapist should be a “blank slate” for his/her client, or if a therapist should be “a regular person.”  I won’t.  The reality is that as a young therapist, I have come to understand that publicly displaying one’s life is a huge “no-no”…   After all, what would clients think?  That I am human?

My friend, Doli (Croatian photographer, Dolores Juhas), for some time now has been asking me to “write something.”   Since I have come to Rome, she has been on me to “write something like a blog” especially now that I have taken to writing haiku and posting them in the ‘Notes’ section of my Facebook (yes, I am on Facebook).  And although, I am sure she (and every one of my ever-loving-me friends) love reading my haiku, I have decided to take the plunge and start this blog.  The question is: what will it be about?  Most of these blog-things have a point – Right?

21 Days: Rewind the clock… then fast forward.

October 2010.  I found myself in Rome, Italy (not Georgia) attempting to visit a friend.  I say ‘attempting’ because it never really came to fruition.  Picture it, the Tuesday before I leave on Thursday, my friend’s father passes away.  So, I found myself, for the most part, alone in Rome.  Now, you might think, “Hell yeah!”  After all, Rome is the eternal city, right?  Party central?  Well, when you happen to be Black, young, female, and not knowing a word of Italian, Rome became a type of giant hallway of  mirrors with every eye staring at me, except the eyes were not my own – It didn’t help that prior to my leaving that I had read different postings about Black women in Italy being perceived as prostitutes because some of the population of North African women decided to prescribe to such a profession.  Thus, my tiny, dark hotel room became my sanctuary (by the way, never go to this hotel). 

Perhaps it was all the staring, or perhaps it was spending too much time alone, or perhaps it was just my dreary hotel room; whatever it was, I left Rome that October feeling quite certain of one thing: I had no idea who I had become.  On almost a daily occasion I found myself staring at my own reflection and simply thinking: I do not know who I am anymore.

February 2011.  I decided to come back to the scene of the crime – Rome.  There are a multitude of reasons I could give as to why I am here.  The truth is that I hope to find some closure to what had been opened in October; or, at the very least, some guidance towards the truth, i.e. of myself.  So, I gave myself 21 days to answer a specific question…  You know, a rather simple one:  who am I?